Guy Stuff

Guy Lombardo, being from Canada, grew up pronouncing his name as though it was “gee,” a command used to turn a horse to the right (as opposed to “haw” ... what Canucks call a lady of the evening.) But, after many years dealing with the boobs south of the 49th parallel, the baton of the “Royal Canadians” orchestra eventually relented and started answering to “Guy” (rhymes with “pie.”) Early in his career, Mr. New Years and his fellow music makers dressed as Mounties in Smoky-the-Bear hats, gray jodhpurs, red riding jackets, high black saddle boots, cross-chest leather straps, and brass-buckled belts. However, as their midriffs drifted east and west, they switched to a double-breasted tuxedos with white carnations.

Actually, Guy Lombardo hated New Years and everything that went with it. His audience was generally loud and boorish. His band members would often get sloshed and pee themselves. Champagne gave him a crotch itch and caviar, the runs. He hated wall-to-wall football throughout New Year’s day since he invariably had a rip-roaring headache from all the ambient cigarette smoke of the previous night. But his wife was a gridiron junkie so he was forced to endure every last tackle. And he was still brushing confetti out of his dinner jacket in July. But since 1954, the Royal Canadians were getting enormous fees to usher in New Years on national television. They had become a holiday icon much like the lighted ball dropping above Times Square. So Guy always put on his game face and smiled his way through this annual ordeal. In fact he claimed that when he died he was going to take New Years with him.

In 1992, the Lombardo orchestra was to play out the old year at The Rainbow Room in Rockefeller Center. He had assembled most of his best players from times past and augmented them with a string section from the New York Philharmonic. The festivities started at 7:30 with a eight-course dinner including roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and black-eyed peas (for the superstitious). The meal ended with Lindy’s cheesecake and a token haggis for those with “Mac” prefixing their last name. Guy and his guys played light vespers throughout dinner and moved to show tunes after the coffee was served. Then he brought on vocalists for the more romantic golden oldies which were punctuated, about ever fifth melody, with a rumba, a samba, or a polka. The evening went swimmingly until sometime after 10:30 when things started getting a little strange.

It all began when a slide trombone player hit three sour notes in a row during a “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” solo. This was unusual in and of itself, but when the first violinists broke his G-string during “Some Enchanted Evening”, Guy started to show some concern under his facial patina of teeth. Then the drummer put his stick right through the skin of his tom-tom ... and four reeds of the saxophone section all broke simultaneously during “Midnight Sleigh Ride.” By 11:15, Guy’s world was rapidly coming apart. Up till then the TV networks had been able to cover most of these faux pas’ by cutting to commercials. But at this point, things were unraveling so fast that the networks were forced to broadcast any new errata to the entire nation ... like when the guitar player fell off his stool during “Spanish Eyes” right into the horn of the tuba. Or when the piano lid collapsed during “Kitten on the Keys” ... taking a portion of the pianist’s scalp with it.

By this time the audience had stopped dancing and just stood there, mouths agape, watching this scene out of a Keystone Kops movie. Guy tried to dispel the spell by calling an extended break during which the networks panned over the revelers in Times Square or switched to “A Horn Blows at Midnight,” starring Jack Benny. During this time out, Guy assembled his band members and forbade them to have anything more to drink. He also summarily dismissed two woodwind players who already had stained the knickers’ fronts ... and forced steaming hot coffee into his only flautist, since she was needed for “Auld Lang Syne.”

When they returned, it soon became clear that it wasn’t just the booze at work ruining this “first night.” Next acoustical tiles began dropping from the ceiling. Then the fountain in the middle of the dance floor went berserk and sprayed many patrons with cheap champagne ... while, at the same time, its multi-colored lights began shorting out, sending sparks leaping across the wet floor to the dancers. Five were electrocuted on the spot ... quivering like they were enraptured with ecstasy. Then the spinning mirrored ball came crashing to the floor, killing the bass player and badly injuring five spectators. And as the witching hour approached, things became even more bizarre. Tables began levitating. Forks and knives came alive and embedding themselves in peoples’ posteriors.

Through the glass ceiling above the dance floor, one could see incredibly bright lighting flashes under gray, ominous clouds. Then thunder came rolling into the restaurant, almost drowning out the orchestra which, by now, was almost completely out of syncopation due to its lack of a drum beat or bass notes. But they played on ... like the band on the sinking Titanic. At the first stroke of midnight those guests not already dead or injured were looking for a rapid escape route. Right then, Guy noticed a unfamiliar face in the brass section. This player was clearly not an ASCAP member. He had a flowing silver beard and was dressed in a long white robe. As he raised his trumpet to his lips, Guy noticed a name badge pinned to the breast of his cassock. It clearly spelled out, in diamond-inlayed lettering, “ARCHANGEL GABRIEL.”

Those of you reading this are obviously living in a parallel universe.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

A PC Christmas

“T’was the night before Christmas ...” The NAACP has complained to the Civil Rights Commission arguing that this line should be updated to read “T’was the night before Kwanzaa ...”

“Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” The Friends of Animals takes umbrage at the term “creature” and is insisting that it be changed to “lovable, furry thing that should not be trapped.”

“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care” The Cross-Dressers of America want it noted here that this means taupe silk hose with oh-so-cute lacy stuff around the top ... and that only Woolite should be used to wash such dainties.

“The children were nestled all snug in their beds” The North American Man-Boy Love Association wants this changed to “nestled all snug in our beds”.

“... while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads” Michelle Obama has insisted that this phrase be changed to “thoughts of low-fat Greek yogurt” and is threatening to go on The View if she is ignored.

“Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap” The Queer Nation is objecting to the use of such stereotypical male/female bonding units as representing an idealized family.

“The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow” Yoko Ono insists that such sexists comments show that we still live in a male-dominated, piggish society. She wants this word changed to “chest.”
“As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.” The Environmental Protection Agency has issued a complaint stating that leaves left unraked into the winter represents a violation of Sections 125.92: J and 9734.2: D-G of the Omnibus Environmental Protection Law of 1993.

“... with a little old driver” AARP has sought an immediate court injunction to estop such pejorative comments about senior citizens.

“... jolly old elf and I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself” The Little People’s Society has also insisted that the term “elf” and its associated derision be immediately expunged from this narrative.

“On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer and Vixen” The ASPCA has issued a formal complaint against St. Nicholas, citing his verbal and physical abuse of these eight tiny reindeer.

“He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot ...” The Animal Liberation Front has threatened to throw cow’s blood on anyone who dares to dress up in such insensitive costumes.

“... little round belly that shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly” The Surgeon General has demanded that a printed warning be put on this page saying that being obese to this degree could be hazardous to your health.

“The smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath” Henry Waxman, a congressman from California, has threatened to hold hearings unless this line is stricken in its entirety.

“He filled all the stockings and turned with a jerk” Steve Martin has gone to court suing for 10% royalties for the use of the term “jerk”.

“... up the chimney he rose” The Trial Lawyers of America has stated that forcing Santa Claus to enter and exit a premises via the fireplace is demeaning and likely to cause bodily harm. They are assembling a massive class action suit against all those parents who allowed Santa to visit in this manner.

“He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle” The AFL/CIO is demanding to know if St. Nick is a member of their North Pole Teamsters’ local. If he can’t produce proof that he is, they are going to picket New Years.

“Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!” The National Education Association has objected that this line, and all the rest of this story ... saying that they contain words that are spelled correctly. This is obviously intended to stifle the creativity of our children.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

Over the River ...

The five of us arrived at Grandmother’s house after a long, chilly drive in Uncle Bill’s old Packard. His over-sized gray sedan smelled of damp mohair and the allspice, mace, and cinnamon that infused the steam seeping in from the pie basket in the trunk. In this hamper were three plump pumpkin pies, a cardamom-mince pie, and two zesty lemon pies with their alpine-high meringues dotted with caramelized sugar drops, all packed in among four dozen yeasty, poppy-seed dinner rolls. We also carried bouquets of the last of the brilliant fall asters and multi-colored maple leaves. Greeting us at the door were most of rest of Grandma’s and Grandpa’s issue and a few neighbors; 22 in all, beaming and chatting with growling stomachs.

We doffed of scarves and greatcoats and were given hot mulled wine or a Bourbon Old Fashion, according to our taste. Scattered around the den and kitchen were the hors d’oeuvres: butter-tender Schmaltz herring in a sweet-sour-cream sauce sprinkled with lots of chopped fresh dill; oysters Rockefeller (saucer-sized and nestling a bed of chopped spinach and a drop of Pernod with a bubbling crust of bread crumbs and grated Parmesan cheese); mounds and mounds of tender Jumbo shrimp with a sharp horseradish and chili-sauce dressing, crisp celery and carrot sticks with a dip made from butter and blue cheese mashed together and thinned with a vintage port wine; colossal Pimento-stuffed olives; miniature sweet Gherkins; and an assortment of odoriferous cheeses (a runny Brie, a ripe Gorgonzola, a well-aged Gouda, a nutty Emmenthaler, and a creamy Double Gloucester) with lots of crusty French country bread.

After over-sampling this largess and re-acquainting ourselves with each other, we were led into the candle-lit dining room for a family prayer and the object of our sojourn. There on the groaning board were ten chilled bottles of this year’s best Nouveau Beaujolais (fruity almost to the point of a fine Spanish Sangria); a huge cob-smoked ham with a orange-honey-clove glaze over a copious coat of toasty fat; two boned legs of grilled baby lamb basted with its garlic, rosemary, and lemon au jus; a 32-pound roasted capon turkey, cooked to a juicy perfection with its chestnut and sage dressing; and three gravy boats filled with a glistening minced-giblet gravy (made with the turkey pan drippings, arrowroot, and the water in which the giblets had simmered all morning along with celery tops, some carrots and crushed shallots).

Filling in the voids on this massive table were the poppy-seed rolls, a large chaffing dish of whole cranberry sauce augmented with toothpick-thin candied orange-rind strips and Grand Marnier; Greek string beans (made from haricots vert, an oregano-laced marinara sauce topped with bread crumbs and grated Romano cheese and baked to a nutty crust); golden carrots Vichey (dime sized carrot slices and tiny pearl onions blanched into tenderness and then sauced with a roux made with flour, grated onion, a soupcon of nutmeg, and fresh cream); two casseroles filled with steaming sauerkraut, laced with caraway seeds and nestling fresh baked kielbasa; a watercress, Belgian endive, and avocado salad with its mustardy vinaigrette in a yeoman-sized wooden bowl; and a surfeit of fluffy, butter-and-parsley-topped garlic mashed potatoes.

For dessert, out came all the pies we had brought; a chocolate and vanilla-iced Daffodil cake, a browned and steaming rice pudding studded with currents, candied citron, and dried cherries; a rainbow fruit compote (cantaloupe, watermelon, and honeydew balls with strawberries, blueberries, Valencia orange slices, and soused with Marsalla and champagne); and steaming pots of Costa Rican coffee and Earl Gray tea. For dessert’s dessert we had pitted prunes that had soaked to a divine softness in Armagnac; the remainder of the pre-dinner cheeses, now surrounded with ripe Anjou pears, Macoun apples, and fresh figs; and, finally, minted chocolate twigs.

We all sleepily threw ourselves into the washing up and, when it was over and done with all the crockery dried and put away; we settled around the roaring fire in the living room with a glass of hard cider or warming cognac. After many war stories, seasonal songs, and familial antidotes, we pulled on our weather clothes and re-entered the old Packard. Following lots of thank-you’s and echoed good-byes, Uncle Bill pulled from the curb with a short toot of the oogle horn. On the way home we all fell into a deep, high-blood-sugar and L-tryptophan induced sleep. Unfortunately, this also included Uncle Bill ... who consequently drove off of the road at over 60 MPH ... directly into a bridge abutment. Contented ... and with full bellies of Butterball ... we all instantly perished in a Thanksgiving fireball.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

Trick or Treat

It was a late Halloween afternoon, 1960 in Saratoga Springs, New York. The ponies had all gone south for the winter as had most of the birds that spent their summers in this bucolic hamlet. But it was clear that Saratoga Springs aspired to wealth and notoriety beyond its modest size ... with its hot-spring spas, its stately mansions and its miniaturized versions of everything else that was “New York City.” (It even had a Kosher delicatessen, “Moshe’s.”) The daylight was now fading fast as Eastern Standard Time had been re-introduced the weekend before ... just in time to force youngsters to go begging for their candy in the dark. This societal idiocy was ameliorated this particular year by a very bright harvest moon that gave off an orange glow like a sinister jack-o-lantern.

The kids along Congress St. in this tiny berg were doing all the things that children normally do on Halloween ... skipping through the fallen leaves, car egging, window soaping, tree toilet papering, and, of course, trick or treating. They were costumed out as poltergeists and puppy dogs, comic book heroes and cake-walkers, doppelgangers and desperadoes, ghouls and gorillas, ballerinas and boxers, grandmas and even one Gumby. As they went door to door for their penny candies, apples, and small change; it was clear that Congress St. was also a remake of an old New York City thoroughfare -- the 52nd St of the 1950s. For at every answered door was a young woman drawn from a wide variety of hues who was generally scantily clad, heavily made-up, and clearly hoping for a client from the rapidly diminishing tourist population ... or one of the returning college boys ... not a munchkin with a held-in-front brown paper bag.

Now Clement Whether, at 14, was a little older than the rest of the Halloween revelers, but, being a little slow of wit, still clung to the his childhood delights. Having recently moved to “The Springs,” he hadn’t yet been clued into the real function of Congress St. So he turned onto this shady lane in eager anticipation of sugary rewards. Clem was dressed as Samson with a large club, a fur loin cloth, and sandals ... an appropriate facsimile since he was well-muscled from his summer’s lumber jacking. At the third house on the left Clem was greeted by a gorgeous nymph, stripped to her smile, who, when Samson reddened and stammered “trick or treat?”, replied with a sultry look, “Both ... my trick will be your treat, handsome.”

© Copyright,  George W. Potts

Katz's Meow

Katz’s deli brimmed with portlies this cool Autumn forenoon. Many were gofers multi-ordering over-stuffed sandwiches and Dr. Brown’s for their office betters. The countermen were operating with the dexterity of Japanese griddle chefs, stabbing pastramis and beef briskets from the steam table and slicing them onto seeded rye or pumpernickel till a quick glance at the customer told them to stop. If said customer was clever enough to extend a greenie on the countertop, the cutting continued until there was a kalbfleisch tower.

Norris Nasselrod looked markedly out of place as he pushed his way into this odoriferous Octoberfest. He was athletically thin in a white tie and tails. The Hamilton that Norris slyly edged onto the counter had every white-apron in the place scrambling to take his order. But Moshe Poppel quickly testosteroned his right to hook and land this flounder. Moshe had established this pecking-order apex by “accidentally” dropping a butcher knife on the foot of any fellow worker who looked cross-eyed at him. He had done this so often that Blue Cross had specifically excluded this medical condition from further insurance re-imbursements.

Moshe took Norris’ order of a corned beef on marbled rye and outdid himself to justify the impending generous tip. A whole slab of steaming Jewish chateaubriand disappeared under his huge chef's knife and reappeared precariously balanced on serving-platter-sized crust of piebald provender. When he was done, he tucked three half-dones on top of this cholesterol cornucopia while wrapping it in an expanse of waxed paper.

As Norris was given and paid for this gastromonstosity, he deftly retrieved his sawbuck and slid through the lunch crowd like Paul Horning through the Cleveland Browns’ secondary. He penguin-suited his way out onto Houston St. and into a waiting cab before Moshe’s jaw stopped dropping. The derisive laughter and applause from the assembled lunch patrons and his fellow workers caused Moshe to redden from the neck upwards. By the time this sanguinity disappeared under the white yarmulke that Moshe was prone to wear, his whole face and most of his bald head were a bright crimson. The metaphor was obvious to everyone. Henceforth, Moshe was secretly referred to as “Pimple” Poppel.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

Gone Fishin'

It was early summer and the fluke were now biting in and around Montauk, Long Island. These aggressive flat fish were being taken in profusion using sand worms and shiners, on Gosman’s Dock and off shore, for just the last few days. The flounder had disappeared about eight weeks earlier and the offal leftovers had thus been lean for the wharf rats and seagulls. But now things were picking up again. At this news, Bruno Alewife began to smile anew. He loved and lived to fish. He was the town barber only to have something to do in the winter ... and to get enough money to keep his outboard boat, “Avatar,” in decent repair and full of gas in the other seasons. But with clement weather and promising fishing reports, Bruno put his well-worn “Gone Fishin’” sign in his shop’s window in Heather Hills and drove to Gurney’s Marina where he kept his twenty-two foot run-about with its faded blue cabin awning and its 33-horsepower Evenrude.

Bruno’s dream had been to catch a “doormat” fluke, a fish the size of the marlin-embossed sisal rug that lay in front of his tonsorial salon ... or, generally agreed to be a fish of twenty pounds or more. Old-timers often talked about hauling up these trophies on a regular basis before the Moonies had started using their drag nets on George’s Banks. Now the oft-repeated joke was that catching such a fish “would be a fluke.” It was even possible to catch a doormat flounder; but, because it required going out to sea a little further than he liked ... generally in more inclement weather, Bruno kept his chimeras confined to catching a doormat fluke. He had come close twice. Once his line snapped just when he was about to boat at least a thirty pound monster. And the second time, a Mako shark took two-thirds of his prize as soon as it hit the surface about fifteen yards out. Bruno brought back the head and dorsal fin of this almost-doormat, but his buddies only scoffed at his empty boasts as to its pre-Mako dimensions.

This day seemed perfect for prize taking. The waters were generally calm and a sea mist would keep things cool and should pull the fish up from the depths. Bruno left the harbor in good spirits with a cooler full of beer, two wrapped cheese-steak heroes, and his small portable radio tuned to the “oldies” station. He decided to try the bay first and then, if things didn’t work there, the ocean. He fished up and down the Peconic Bay with only a few throw-backs. So, around twelve-thirty, he decided to try his luck on the other side of Montauk Point. He powered up the ‘Rude and pointed his boat toward the fog-horn’s wail on the island’s eastern tip. In route, he leaned on the gunwale and proceeded to devour the heroes while steering the boat and sucking down three ‘Gansetts.

By the time he reached the confluence of the currents coming around both sides of Long Island, Bruno’s senses were a little dulled. He had been through these waters many times before and knew that they could be treacherous. Right off the Montauk Point cliffs and for about a mile off shore, the sea was always roiled, trying to resolve which flow was to prevail. Even on perfectly calm days, the waves in this area suddenly rose to ten feet or more ... and one never knew exactly which way they were going. On this particular day, Bruno was in a hurry to get to his next fishing hole and so cut the point a little too close. He got caught in the worst of the rip currents and had to fight to keep the Avatar on course. One nasty wave lifted his stern completely out of the water which then over-revved his outboard. When the propeller resubmerged, its tremendous torque sheared off its hardened-steel cotter pin like it was a thin pretzel.

Bruno swore and reached for his tool box with one hand while pulling the engine up out of the water with the other. But fate had more bad news in store for this erstwhile Isaac Walton. Just as he was to insert his only replacement cotter pin into the prop shaft, another wave jerked his boat sideways so violently that, in reaching for support, Bruno dropped this critical object into the sea. Some expletives later, Bruno sat pondering his options. The race on the ocean side of this confluence was now pulling him out to sea at about a three knot clip, so his small paddle was of little use. Visibility at this point was only about fifty yards so there was only a small chance that the white towel hung on his outrigger would be spotted by any craft large enough to offer assistance. And since it broke four years before, Bruno did not carry a two-way radio. He was indeed in a real pickle.

The Avatar drifted this way for about three hours ... further and further out into the shipping lanes coming off Sandy Hook. And since the weather was clearing, Bruno was now optimistic that he would be spotted. He dozed for a while, made sleepy by the sun and the three more beers he had imprudently downed. He awoke with a start. There off to the aft was a huge oil tanker, riding high in the water after having disgorged its two million barrels of petroleum into holding tanks near the mouth of Raritan river in New Jersey. The tanker was made in Japan, of Greek registry, flying a Panama flag, with a Romanian captain who was, at this point, snoring in his bunk after spending the previous night boozing and debauching on Tenth Avenue in Manhattan. Not that he would have necessarily seen Bruno’s boat had he been at the helm ... for the ship was the length of three football fields and its angle of vision was further obscured by its high draft. Had it been fully loaded, there might have been a minuscule chance that Bruno would have been spotted, but, even then, little could have been done to stop in time. There was an unofficial but sizable betting pool among its polyglot crew as to how many sails they would find wrapped around the propeller shaft at each trip’s end.

When Bruno fully realized his predicament he started shouting at the top of his lungs ... to no avail. The decibels produced by the bow-wake of the tanker were ten times louder than Bruno’s meager protestations. Then for a brief moment Bruno thought that he might be spared. The tanker was clearly not going to hit him head on ... perhaps a glancing blow only. But such is not the fate of doormat seekers. From about a ten foot distance, Bruno’s flimsy outboard was sucked underneath this behemoth ... where it traversed almost the full length of its barnacle-encrusted double hull before being chewed into chum by the huge, twin-opposing, ship’s propellers. After this gauntlet of mayhem, there wasn’t a piece left of the Avatar or its hapless captain that was as big as would have emerged from a ten-second-pulse on a Cuisenart. Everything had been brutally and efficiently pulverized. All was gone ... fishin'.

© Copyright, George W. Potts

The Way of All Flesh

The fat Hereford steer entered the slaughterhouse, five paces behind his erstwhile feed-lot mate. As soon as he pushed his way through a thick curtain of hanging black plastic strips, his skull was adroitly sledge-hammered by a bare-chested Negroid giant, named “Hard” Thomas. The Hereford dropped to his knees and was dexterously hooked on his knee tendons and winched upside down into a throat-slitting position. This was quickly and quietly done so that the Hereford could then donate his vital fluids to a small red river sluicing down a small gutter in the cement floor. This rivulet was later magically converted to the highest grade fertilizer. (The corn grows better because of the blood of the steer that ate the corn.)

The overhead conveyor chain then moved the still-twitching Hereford first to the header who, with a razor-sharp knife the size of a Samurai sword, finished the beheading process. The head was dropped onto a rubber conveyor belt moving off to the right, perpendicular to the main carcass procession. This noggin was in turn processed into hot dogs and dog food. Next the Hereford was introduced to two skinners, one on either side, who had its hide off in 15 seconds flat. This was dropped down a chute into a vat of lye to remove the hair, then to the tannery, and then to Italy or Brazil to make the finest shoes or pocketbooks. Simultaneous to the hiding, the steer was gutted. With three dexterous swipes of a knife, the offal was dropped into a stainless-steel container which was then whisked off to be processed along with the head.

What was left of the carcass was cut asunder with a stainless-steel chain saw and entered, through another black plastic curtain, into a chiller which, within the course of 25 yards, dropped its temperatures to 38 degrees F. Then, both halves went to a phalanx of butchers who quickly dissected them into T-bone steaks, sirloin steaks, filet mignons, New York strips, skirt steaks (from the diaphragm), beef briskets, top rounds, bottom rounds, eye rounds, rump steaks, chuck steaks, neck meat for hamburgers, standing rib roasts, short ribs, ox-tail chunks for soup, beef shanks for osso bucco ... and an assortment of other viands. Thence these cuts were sent to the packagers who prettied them up in crushed ice and stretch wrap for the ravenous trenchermen in the finest restaurants and home kitchens of America.

By contrast, “Hard” Thomas has been a strict vegetarian since three days after he started his current job.

© Copyright,  George W. Potts